Markarth is the Worst
by Allegrezza
Summary: In which the Dragonborn is incapable of combat and trying her very best not to be roped into anything resembling war or politics. Unfortunately, she's also managed to bind herself to a dremora, so avoiding chaos isn't really in the cards. EXCERPT: If she'd had a choice, she would have asked for a cat familiar. Or a bunny. Something less murder-y.
**A/N:** This is to gauge possible interest in a potential larger story. The premise is that the Dragonborn has no actual intentions of being a Dragonborn (i.e. she is not a warrior, has no combat experience, and prefers brewing potions and cooking to getting involved in war and politics), and only found out that she was because the dremora she has following her around- unintentionally, because she can't conjure to save her life, usually- got her into trouble at the border and killed the dragon for her in Whiterun. Unlike other Dovahkiin, to her the world of Skyrim is a terrifying and threatening place, and she wants nothing to do with it. She's been on the run from responsibility since said dremora outed her, but she still manages to find trouble.

* * *

"I hate this city," she mumbled under her breath, shivering from a chill that wasn't really in the air as she crossed another narrow alley. She was treated to his usual, judgmental silence, but she didn't care, she knew he could hear her. If she couldn't get rid of him, at least she had someone to talk to.

It wasn't much different than talking to herself, when he was invisible like this and usually didn't deign to answer but hey, she knew, and that made it a few steps up from having an imaginary friend. Instead, it was an imaginary friend who could kill her in her sleep. Or literally any other time, should the mood strike him to attempt it or her spell, which she still didn't even know how or why it was working, inevitably broke.

She stepped around a puddle, warned by the dim moonlight reflecting off the wet, muddy street. The marketplace was empty and abandoned this time of night, and she kept away from either edge, where there were sure to guard patrolling the city walls. "I hate all cities, actually. But Markarth is the worst."

"So you've said." She jumped, then felt a bit stupid. Even though she knew he was there, he still managed to startle her. To be honest, she hadn't even expected him to answer. Or to be listening, really. She tried to parse out his tone— he usually sounded generally pissed off, but if they got to the vicinity of impending eruption because of her 'ceaseless, inane chatter', well, she knew to pick her battles. Especially with a daedric force who ate battles for breakfast, while she got squeamish at the sight of a paper cut. However, his tone sounded like his usual, safe level of ever-simmering rage, so she tried to settle her heart rate again.

Stars and moons, how had her life boiled down to differentiating the levels of anger of a dremora she'd somehow made her familiar? If she'd had a choice, she would have asked for a fox familiar. Or a bunny. Something less murder-y.

"Well. It's true," she said pointlessly, after way too long a pause. She was glad she couldn't see him right now, because he'd probably be watching her with that sharp-edged smirk that said he was contemplating eating her, which he gave her when she'd done something stupidly mortal and amusing, like being startled by his presence. So, basically, it was his default expression, and not good for her blood pressure. Thank the souls for invisibility. "Cannibals, Remmy, seriously. There are cannibals here. As if the forsworn and Stormcloaks butchering each other in the streets weren't bad enough."

He grumbled under his breath, but that could have been anything from an expression of agreement to her outrage, a warning to shut up, interest in becoming a cannibal, or just plain irritation at her nickname. Yeah, so 'Remmy' wasn't the most clever nickname for a Dremora, but given the fact that he wouldn't tell her his real name left her with few options.

"Why are you even out here at night?" he growled from behind her. Or more accurately, from her shadow. By the spirits of High Rock, that was never getting any less creepy.

"That man I met in the market earlier today, after that poor woman was killed. He wants me to meet him."

"So?" Even in that one word, his voice gave her the shivers. Too deep and rough and layered to be mortal, like his words were traveling through water before reaching her ears.

"He practically begged for help, I couldn't just say no," she said feebly. She stood by her urge to help people, just as much as she knew she was more useless than a goat in combat. He laughed from behind/beneath her, a rough, ugly sound.

"What in Oblivion do you expect to be able to do?" he asked, voice dripping with disdain.

"…Shout his problems away?" she suggested hopefully. So ok, maybe she hadn't thought this one through. Still, Shouting was really the only decent fighting skill she had, and she'd only discovered that power on accident. Unless Eltrys needed some soup, or a healing potion. She made a mean Elswyr fondue, too.

"And then when he goes squealing to the Jarl that he's found the Dragonborn everyone's looking for?" Remmy asked, tone fake, sickly sweet and it sounded so wrong that it made her shudder worse than when he was angry.

"I'll be out of here before that happens," she said, trying to sound more confident that she felt. She couldn't just turn her back on someone who needed help. "Besides, that's why I've got you, isn't in? If I've got to fight my way out of something, I'll sic you on them," she huffed as she started up the stairs. She nearly made a joke about him needing to pull his weight, then decided she liked having all of her extremities attached.

"I live to serve," he drawled in a flat, humorless tone that sent ice down her spine, instinctively sensing danger, though so far it seemed to be the truth that whatever had bonded him to her meant he wouldn't hurt her. For now. It was really no wonder she'd gotten way less sleep in the last few months before she'd started cohabitating with a being from the planes of Oblivion. She still had nightmares about him taking down that dragon almost single-handedly, blood in his teeth and blood-lust in his smile, the only part of his face she could see around his armor.

"I'll see what he wants, and if I can help. He seemed pretty sure I could," she said as she made her way toward the shrine of Talos. "How bad could it be?"

* * *

By the eight, she knew better than to jinx herself like that.

* * *

"I hate this city," she said with a groan, quite some time and several unfortunate escapades later while the dremora was practically purring with the high of battle and thoroughly exterminating the entire population of Cidhna mine. His armor was covered in blood and the hapless prisoners and guards who'd thrown a seemingly helpless girl in the pit had barely even had time to get over their shock at his sudden appearance when she'd regained consciousness before they were very, very dead.

"I could get used to it," purred her pet harbinger of chaos, bringing her a key he found on one of the bodies. It might be like a cat bringing her his kills, only a lot creepier. And bloodier, she presumed. She wouldn't know, as the eight didn't see fit to give her a cat familiar, like normal people have. The way he looked at her, just for a moment, with the same analyzing, eager look with a fierce, predatory grin he gave everything else before he killed it, made her distinctly aware of her lack of armor. Not that she usually had any.

"Let's just get out of here," she said unsteadily when he looked away again, kicking open the prison gate.

"As you command," he said, and she can see his smirk this time. Her attempts to make him un-manifest were ignored as he led the way out, and she wondered, not for the first time, how long she has until he learns how to disobey her other orders too. For now, at least, she focused on getting as far away from this gods-forsaken city as fast as possible.

And on finding some damn clothes.

Markarth is the worst.


End file.
